


collarbones like angel wings

by hock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorder, Gen, Literally like, Negative Body Image, Sorry About It, courfeyrac hates math and so do i, eating disorder behavior, im literally just projecting onto courf ok, literally if youre triggered by this stuff then dont read, please stay safe lovelies and dont read if this is upsetting, this is all a giant vent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hock/pseuds/hock
Summary: It's not that big of a deal at all. Seriously. Like, if his brain could maybe shut up for half a goddamned second then he would realize that he's just overreacting. He can't even do this successfully, so what's the point?





	collarbones like angel wings

Courfeyrac was hungry.

Well, no, come to think of it, he probably wasn't hungry, despite the growl that his stomach let out in retaliation to that thought. Dehydrated, more likely, because his head hurt and felt like it was going to go spinning off his neck like a painted top. It wasn't a new feeling, but at least he was headed towards lunch, where he could alleviate the problem courtesy of his purple Nalgene bottle.

Walking down the stairs, his vision flashed between bright color and blackness on each alternating step like a disco strobe light, except this wasn't the 1980s and Courfeyrac was having decidedly less fun than he would at a disco. Honestly, it wouldn't come as a surprise to him if he were to topple headfirst down the red linoleum steps, and that would be the end of that. It would be a dramatic way to go out, especially during a class change, but Courfeyrac didn't want to cause a traffic jam, so he thus managed to keep his eyes open and balanced centered until he landed in front of his locker. He undid the combination, reaching in his backpack for a stick of Trident gum and his water bottle. He balanced his binders on his hip like an infant as he checked his grades on his phone, ignoring the notifications reminding him to log his breakfast and lunch.

He shut the locker, double-checking the contents of his arms before turning and beginning to walk towards the library.

Most of his friend group had been barred from the library during lunch after an unfortunate incident in which the contents of Bossuet's binders had ended up being thrown out of the window and landing atop vice principal's head. However, through plausible deniability and expert skills honed from mock trial, he, Combeferre, and Enjolras managed to keep their privileges. The library was quiet and peaceful during lunch, scattered students frantically working on essays due next period mixed with introverted social recluses enjoying their 25 minutes of alone time. He found Enjolras sitting at a table typing furiously on his laptop, an open bag of salt and vinegar chips laying next to him. Combeferre lounged beside him, eating an apple thoughtfully while thumbing through a novel and occasionally taking notes in the open composition notebook beside him. Courfeyrac sat down at their table, grinning when Combeferre looked up at him, raising an eyebrow in the silent question of “what today?” He shuffled through his binder, finally extracting his math homework and sliding it across the table to Combeferre.

“So like, what the fuck is up with imaginary numbers?” He asked as Combeferre skims the sheet with a bemused smile. Enjolras looks up briefly when he begins talking, shushes him sharply, and returns to whatever it is he's working on. Combeferre sighs, setting the paper down on the table and grabbing the pencil from where he had laid it rest behind his ear.

“Okay, so, where are you getting stuck?” Combeferre asked, tapping his pencil against the paper and pushing his glasses up on his nose again. Courfeyrac watched, inexplicably fascinated before realizing he had been asked a question.

“Oh!” He exclaimed, a touch too loudly for the library. Enjolras shushed him again, more aggressively this time, and Courfeyrac recoiled slightly, feeling guilty for upsetting him. He looked back to Combeferre, trying to find a way to explain that he didn't understand why he needed to care about something imaginary, for Christ's sake, but he knew Combeferre better than that.

“Like, I get the basic formula. I squared equals negative one, all that. But it gets really fucking complicated when I multiply or divide it, and honestly I can't focus in math anyway so that doesn't help,” Courfeyrac rambled, trying to regain control over the empty feeling in his stomach. It usually wasn't this bad at lunch. Usually, he only started really feeling it in 7th period, where his head flies out of the window because it's math of all things.

“So, here, in number 17, you just need to treat the I like a variable with an extra step…” Combeferre thoroughly explained, and Courfeyrac was happy to vocally tune out and listen to whatever he had to say. Combeferre always helped, even if he didn't know he was doing it. If he could listen to Combeferre, then everything else is minimized, and maybe, just maybe (solidly, maybe), he won't fail math this year.

Of course, he's just a tad dramatic and holds himself to unrealistic standards, so failing for him means like, a B.

The bell rings before he can fully grasp the topic, but he grins and thanks Combeferre anyway. It will be fine. It always is. He’ll make another C on a quiz and it’ll drop his grade a point or two, but he’ll keep a A because he always keeps an A. Courfeyrac is not Courfeyrac without his A average, right?

That’s funny because Courfeyrac has never been more apathetic in his entire academic career than this year. He has A’s, but his classes are easy as shit and he’s lost all motivation for the classes that he does have the capacity to focus in. Why does he feel so lightheaded? Usually, it’s not this bad until the very end of the day. Whatever. He’ll manage.

He sits down in Spanish and prepares to tune out for the entire period as usual. The teacher likes him, anyway. All will be fine.

All is not fine, because his stomach won’t stop growling and he’s out of gum and he can’t stop thinking about what he’s going to eat for dinner.

See, Courfeyrac doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but he thinks he has a problem.

It’s not big deal, really. He still looks healthy and, for the most part, acts healthy. However, he knows, deep down, that all of the things he does are actually bad. Like, really bad. Like eating disorder bad.

But he doesn’t want to think he has an eating disorder. Those are for skeletal teen girls with thigh gaps and collarbones like angel wings. Those are for people who actually manage to fucking lose the weight that sticks to his stomach and arms like a jail sentence.

Besides, he’s probably just doing it for attention. He hasn’t told anybody about it, sure, but down the road, he’s sure he’ll have to tell someone eventually, and then it will all be for attention. And, in order for him to actually tell someone, he has to actually acknowledge that it’s a real problem. Which, again, it isn’t. Who doesn’t skip meals from time to time? 

Courfeyrac puts his head down on his desk with a disgruntled sigh, unhappy that he’s having this argument with himself again but not caring enough to change the course of his mental conversation. Of course, he knows that he isn’t skipping meals from time to time. He knows that having a 300-500 calorie limit a day isn’t the ideal functioning capacity for a regular human. But Courfeyrac isn’t a regular human. If his grades look so good, why doesn’t the rest of his body? He feels like a beached whale, even among his friends. 

Especially Enjolras. He and Enjolras are closer than brothers, and always have been, but it's so hard to talk to him and not notice how his shirts always hang loose around his tiny waist, and how his jeans are never stretched uncomfortably around his legs. He doesn't like to think about how Enjolras eats, mostly normally, and still looks like that. And, the few times they had gone to the beach or a pool party? Courfeyrac has never been filled with more jealousy for someone's body. All of the “thinspo” pictures that he desperately scrolls past are bad enough, but having a living, breathing example of what he wants is fucking torturous. Especially since Enjolras seems immune to any commentary about his body or his eating.

And, come to think of it, he's always comparing himself to his friends, good or bad. He knows Grantaire is a perfectly healthy weight and is more active than Enjolras even, but he can't help but look at him and think that he would literally kill himself if he looked like that. And he hates that thought. He hates it so fucking much. Hates it almost as much as he hates himself. He's always comparing himself to everyone around him and it’s all just so fucked up.

The bell rings unexpectedly, and he groans a little too loudly. The freshman at the desk next to him snickers, and Courfeyrac doesn’t even have the energy to acknowledge him before collecting his binders into his arms and heading to his last period.

He knows this isn’t sustainable, wincing as he plods down the stairs, trying to ignore how each step felt like a blow to his skull. He knows that one day, he’s going to fall apart. But, until then, he can do nothing but wait, drifting from class to class and hoping that one day he’ll be happy with himself.

**Author's Note:**

> guys please hmu if you ever need to talk about this stuff my tumblr is @hocksquawks. if you're considering restriction as a way of weight loss then ditch that idea immediately because it's not healthy and can lead you down a dark path. stay safe xoxo


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